


The Upper Hand

by sideris



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, First Time, Kissing, M/M, Riding Crop, WAFF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-09
Updated: 2011-07-09
Packaged: 2017-10-21 05:07:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/221252
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sideris/pseuds/sideris
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Two silly buggers and a riding crop. What can possibly go wrong?</p><p>With added icecream.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Upper Hand

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sco1of](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=sco1of).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [【授權翻譯】The Upper Hand<優勢地位>](https://archiveofourown.org/works/589117) by [Jawnlock123](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jawnlock123/pseuds/Jawnlock123)



> With thanks to verilyvexed for betaing and to rroselavy for reading and encouraging

John is on his hands and knees on the floor in Sherlock's bedroom.

Seven days ago, when they were both weak with relief at not being dead, and giddy at discovering Moriarty's 'Semtex' was nothing more than a few slabs of marzipan fitted with wires wrapped in baking foil, he and Sherlock kissed. One minute they were laughing and hugging each other, and the next they were kissing. John's not sure who kissed who first; they just seemed to collide, mouth to mouth, hands in each other's hair, clutching at one another in a frenzy of tongues, and lips, and hands.

And now John is on his hands and knees, on the floor, in Sherlock's bedroom.

Sadly though, it's not in the way that, a week ago, he was hoping for. He's not getting shagged senseless, nor is he shagging Sherlock; he's looking for his bloody stethoscope. Because Sherlock borrowed it for 'something important', then promptly forgot about it.

Just like he seems to have forgotten about the kiss and how desperately they wanted each other.

At the time, it was common sense that made John pull back, even though what he really wanted, more than anything, was to shove Sherlock to the ground and tear his clothes off. On reflection, if he had, those nobbly poolside tiles would probably have been painfully hard on his knees, or Sherlock's, but - oh, god! - he wanted to. Right up until the moment he remembered that Moriarty might still be there, watching them, and learning ever more subtle ways to burn Sherlock's heart out. The prospect was too horrible to contemplate, so John pulled back, telling himself that what he and Sherlock wanted to do to each other would be far better done at home anyway.

But when they got there, they didn't do anything.

The cab ride back to Baker Street was a long, slow one, and as much as John wanted to snog Sherlock the whole the way, he wasn't sure Sherlock would appreciate semi-public kissing, so he sat in thrilled anticipation, willing the taxi driver to put his foot down. But as the miles rolled past, Sherlock got quieter and quieter, and eventually shifted away from John into a corner, where he seemed to fold in on himself, arms crossed, head turned away as he stared out blankly into the night.

By the time they got home, the silence between them was painful, and John's brain was helpfully rattling through a vast list of reasons for it, none of them good, and all of them boiling down to one thing: he might want Sherlock, but Sherlock didn't want him back. He'd gone too far and ruined everything. When he opened the door to 221 to let them in, the speed with which Sherlock shot up the stairs and disappeared into his room just confirmed it, and John was left to trudge up to his own room alone. Once there, he collapsed onto his bed - so tired, on so many levels, that he fell asleep immediately, still wearing every last stitch of his clothes.

And now, a week later, here he is in Sherlock's room, _still_ not getting shagged or doing any shagging, but peering under the bed instead.

The sight that greets him is such an awful mess that he's on the point of giving up all hope of ever finding his lost stethoscope again, when suddenly he spots it. He stretches through the chaos of books and clothes and god knows what else to reach it, but when his fingers finally close around their goal, he realizes they're not gripping flexible vinyl tubing but something else entirely: a length of stiff but springy leather. A ripple of shock goes through him, making his armpits prick and his palms tingle. He knows what this is, this thing he's holding. It's a riding crop.

He withdraws it slowly from under the bed and stares. It's much like the one he carried at Sandhurst on ceremonial occasions - only, unlike John's military crop, this one has been used. Some of the edges of the criss-crossed leather weave are worn, no longer a shiny black but scuffed and grey. Has it been used by Sherlock? John's belly tightens oddly at the thought. Used _on_ Sherlock? Oh god, John really wishes he hadn't thought that. He swallows hard, unable to stop the images forming in his head, unable to prevent himself running a finger and thumb down the length of the crop. He presses the end of it against the palm of his hand, and bends it back on itself. It takes a surprising amount of effort, considering that the crop is really pretty thin, but when John takes his hand away, the sheer force with which it snaps out straight again makes the hairs on the back of his neck stand up on end.

There must, he tells himself frantically, be a hundred and one reasons why Sherlock has a riding crop, _none_ of them sexual. Even so, he finds himself gripping the crop harder, nails digging into his palm, as he tries to come up with just one. One would do. _Any_ one. It would ease the sudden ache in his balls, and let him breathe normally again.

It's a long time coming, but at last he remembers. The first day they met, at St Bart's, Sherlock mentioned having a crop, and that he'd left it in the mortuary. John lets out a shaky breath - Sherlock obviously uses the thing in his deductions somehow - and a little of the tension in his belly starts to ebb away. He doesn't need to know exactly how Sherlock uses it, just that the crop is for something scientific. Something _quantifiable_. Something as far removed from the things John was thinking as it's possible to get.

He pushes the crop back under the bed again, all the way under, as far as he can reach. Out of sight, out of mind.

"Find it?" a voice - Sherlock's voice - asks.

John's reaction is one of wild, visceral panic. He jumps, knocking first his head, then his left shoulder, against the underside of Sherlock's bed with a force that makes him hiss in pain. Oh god, how long has he been there? What did he see? What the hell is he thinking?

John extricates himself awkwardly from the junk under Sherlock's bed, and gets to his feet. He'd rather not look Sherlock in the eye right now, but fears avoiding his gaze might seem even more incriminating, so he brazens it out, despite the heat burning his cheeks. "Uh, find what?" he asks, stuffing his hands into the pockets of his jeans in what he hopes is a casual manner.

There's a long silence. "Your stethoscope," Sherlock says, eventually. "Did you find it?"

His stethoscope! Yes, of course! John feels like an idiot now. "Um, no. Not, uh, yet. I ... I don't think it's in here."

Sherlock sniffs. "Try the kitchen," he suggests, and disappears back into the living room.

John takes a couple of good, deep breaths. Then a couple more. Bloody hell, Sherlock can be eerily stealthy when he wants; John had better remember that.

When he's regained enough composure to go back into the living room, he finds Sherlock sitting with his elbows resting on his desk, chin propped up on his thumbs, and hands pressed together against his lips. To John's relief, his eyes are closed and he seems deep in thought, giving John the perfect opportunity to creep past him and into the kitchen without being noticed.

It doesn't work.

"Why would a man want to be beaten?" Sherlock asks out of the blue, every word as crisp and hard-edged as the crack of a whip.

John's heart leaps in his chest, and does its best to fight its way up and out of his throat. He goes hot, then cold, and his hands turn clammy. "Wh-what?" he stammers.

Sherlock opens his eyes and swivels around on his seat to look up at him. "Something I'm working on," he explains, with a slow, almost seductive, smile.

 _Stay calm_ , John thinks. _Be professional. It's for a case. It's just a question about a case._ He racks his brains desperately for something to say and, by some miracle, manages to dredge up a memory from med school, from the term when he - briefly - considered a career in psychiatry. "Um, I think it’s about letting go?” he offers. “Men like that, they're usually ... er, very good at what they do. They have highly responsible jobs, and aren’t outwardly submissive at all. Competent men. Successful."

Sherlock leans forward, all intense focus and interest. "That would certainly fit the profile. Go on."

"Well," John says, "it's complicated but, if I'm remembering it properly, it's about not being the one in charge any more."

Sherlock nods. "Yes. And?"

"Um." John is floundering now. "Sometimes it's about trust?"

"Really?” Sherlock murmurs. “How interesting. Trust issues."

John gives an embarrassed laugh. "Well, I’m no expert. I switched to field medicine half-way through the course, so I'm not really qualified-"

"But you're an intelligent man, John," Sherlock interrupts. "Not to mention, one used to acting on his instincts. Tell me what your gut says." His eyes are very blue, very clear, and they make John shiver. "What's so good about not being in charge?"

John forces a shrug. "Not feeling responsible? Not having to worry about making decisions?"

"Like being in the army!" Sherlock exclaims, clapping his hands together. He cocks an eyebrow. "Is that why you joined? To be controlled by someone else?"

"No!" John cries hotly, really not liking the way Sherlock is looking at him now. "I joined up because I wanted to do what I do best, _where_ I do it best. Where I could make the most difference. And besides, I was just a captain, an assistant surgeon. I had to follow orders. The kind of men you're talking about ... well, they're much more highly placed than that. High court judges, captains of industry - that kind of thing. _Brilliant_ men."

"Brilliant men?" Sherlock's eyes go wide and a light-bulb seems to go off behind them. He rocks back in his chair and cries, "Oh! Of course! Stupid, _stupid_! Stay there! Don't move!" And without further explanation, he leaps up and dashes off to his room. John hears him moving stuff around and the odd, impatient curse, followed by a crow of triumph, and then he's back again, striding up to John, riding crop in hand.

John takes a step back. "Sherlock?" he gasps, despite his best efforts not to. "What-"

Sherlock steps in closer and presses the crop into John's hand. "I've been an idiot, John. The data didn't make sense." He looks away, then back again. "I'm afraid none of this is really my area."

John blinks. "What the hell are you talking about?"

"I saw you," Sherlock says quietly. "Earlier. With this." He touches a finger lightly to the crop, to the little triangle of leather at its end. "You looked ... interested." He meets John's eye again. "I don't know how these things are done, John."

John blinks again, unable to process what's happening, what Sherlock means. And yet, on some level, he must be doing exactly that, because his mouth has gone horribly dry. "Are you .." He stops, swallows awkwardly and tries again. "Are you asking me to ..?" He can't say it. It's too ridiculous.

Or it would be, if Sherlock hadn't just nodded and taken off his shirt.

Oh, god - his skin is so pale. He's so slender and vulnerable. What John really wants to do is scoop him up in his arms and protect him. He shakes his head. "I can't."

It's as if he hadn't even spoken. Sherlock moves the chair he was sitting on out of the way, shunts everything on his desk up to the far end, and plants both hands down flat on it. "You're a soldier," he says, crisply. "You follow orders. Do it."

He's mad. Completely insane. But John has always known that. Whatever Sherlock claims, the idiot really was going to swallow that damn pill to prove himself smarter than a mere cabbie, and he's been doing stupid things ever since. To John's certain knowledge, he's been shot at, attacked by sword-wielding acrobats, half-strangled with a length of red silk, almost blown up and nearly suffocated by a golem - and none of it because it was his job. No, it's like Donovan says: he gets off on it. Without the stimulation of a puzzle, or the thrill of danger, he sinks into boredom and despair. John's grip on the crop tightens. Perhaps Sherlock needs this?

"Some time today would be wonderful," Sherlock says, as John continues to hesitate. "If you wouldn't mind."

For a man asking to be whipped, his tone is surprisingly imperious - annoyingly so, in fact - and John feels a flicker of resentment. It's a life-line, something he can use, and he moves round to stand slightly behind Sherlock.

As he does so, Sherlock lets out a long breath, like a sigh of relief, and he adjusts his position, spreading his hands further apart, and bending his arms a little at the elbows. The change means he's leaning forward now, with his back curved over the desk, so that every little bump of his spine and the lines of his shoulder blades stand out sharply from the smooth, white expanse of his skin.

The sight of him like that - waiting, submissive and unresisting - does the most wicked things to John's insides. His belly twists and grows hot, and his heart starts to race. He couldn't swallow if he tried. There's sweat beading along his hairline and at the nape of his neck, and his dick is impossibly, shamefully, hard. He can't think straight. Doesn't know if what he's about to do is wrong, or if it's right - and frankly, he doesn't much care.

He screws his eyes tight shut, raises the crop above his head, and when he hears Sherlock growl " _Now_ ", brings it down hard.

There's a split second when all he hears is the swish of the crop slicing through the air, and the crack as the leather hits skin, and then Sherlock is gasping, panting and swearing incoherently. A chair goes flying and a mug gets knocked to the ground.

Hardly daring to, John opens his eyes - to find Sherlock doubled over his desk, breathing heavily, a foot-long crimson weal rising in a diagonal stripe from the middle of his left shoulder blade down to the bottom of his ribcage.

"Oh, god!" John cries in horror. "Not good, not good. Bloody hell, Sherlock, I'm sorry! Are you all right?"

Still half-bent over the desk, Sherlock turns his head to look at him. His eyes are wet and shimmering, but he manages wry smile. "Not particularly, Doctor. That-" He bites his lip. "- hurt."

"Yes, well, yes - it would," John stammers. "H-hang on, I'll get some ice."

He hurries into the kitchen and throws open the freezer door but the ice-trays are empty. Both of them. Frozen peas would have made a good alternative, but of course, there's none of those either. In fact, there's not a damn thing in the freezer apart from an ancient packet of fishfingers and a tub of vanilla ice-cream. John picks up the ice-cream. It'll have to do.

"You didn't do the bloody shopping," he grumbles, returning to the living room. " _Again_."

"Shopping is boring," Sherlock scoffs, then winces, fingertips squeaking audibly on the polished top of his desk.

The tirade John might have launched into about how Sherlock needs to stop relying on him to do all the domestic chores and take some responsibility for their living arrangements too dies on his tongue. He fetches a cushion from the settee and eases it between Sherlock and the desk. As Sherlock lets himself sink down onto it, John prises the lid off the ice-cream and scoops a dollop out with his fingers.

"This is going to be cold," he warns.

Sherlock hisses at the first cold dab of it on his inflamed skin, and all the muscles in his back tense up.

"Sorry," John says, again. Because he is, he really is. The half-formed fantasy of having Sherlock entirely at his mercy was embarrassingly hot, but this - the reality of it - absolutely isn't. He'd rather injure himself than Sherlock.

Sherlock gives a short, hard laugh. "I had no idea you were so strong, John. Nor so fierce."

"Oh god," John groans, mortified. "Neither did I. I didn't mean to ... you know ..."

Sherlock pushes up from the desk and stands, turning to face John. "Well, it's done now. There's no point in your looking so anxious."

"But-"

Sherlock halts John's protest with a smile. "It's _fine_." His lifts his hand as if about to cup John's face, and John thinks that maybe they're about to have a moment after all, but suddenly Sherlock's nose wrinkles and he grimaces, body twisting as he tries to look back over his shoulder. "The ice-cream," he says. "It's melting."

It is, indeed - dripping in pale stripes down Sherlock's back, and threatening to slide under the waistband of his expensive trousers and ruin them.

"Lie back down," John urges, patting the cushion. "I'll get a cloth."

Sherlock obeys without a murmur, and John goes back to the kitchen for a tea-towel.

He's only gone for a matter of seconds, but when he comes back, the sight of Sherlock in _that_ position - bent over his desk, stripped to the waist and waiting for him - hits him low in the stomach, like he's seeing it for the very first time. His dick comes instantly back to life, and in a few thudding pulses it's achingly hard against the stiff line of his flies.

Sherlock is very quiet, very still, as John approaches. The ice-cream has lost almost all its shape now, and is little more than a sticky puddle, the worst of it heading for the small of Sherlock's back and dribbling outwards along the line of his waist. John wipes one side with the tea-towel, then the other, and is about to try cleaning up the rest when he's overtaken by a strong and urgent need to lick Sherlock's skin, to lick the wound he inflicted and help it heal. Leaning in, he lowers his head and runs the tip of his tongue up the length of it.

Sherlock shivers and lets out a breathy " _John_!"

John freezes. "Not good?"

"On the contrary," Sherlock purrs, flexing his shoulders like a cat being stroked. "Don't stop."

Encouraged, John keeps on licking, licking and kissing too, and being very, very careful, until Sherlock arches beneath him with a sharp intake of breath.

"John, if you don't-," he says. "If you don't ... _now_ ... something is going to break."

His words send a new rush of excitement through John, turning his knees to jelly. "Um, bed?" he suggests. He doesn't want to get anything else wrong. He couldn't bear it.

Sherlock's head falls forward and he shakes it, dark curls emphasizing the movement. "No," he says, punctuating each word a roll of his hips. "Here. Now. Like this."

It's as if every one of John's nerve endings had fired at once. He's imagined shagging Sherlock in all kinds of places, in all kinds of ways, but this is better than any of them. Because it's real and messy and - _oh god_ \- Sherlock actually _wants_ John to fuck him. Over a table.

John swallows and tries to think of something else, just for a moment, because otherwise he's going to come from the simple act of undoing his jeans. He'll remove Sherlock's trousers first, he decides, as he toes off his shoes. That would be best. Practical. Calming.

Only it's not, because Sherlock shudders as soon as John's hand finds his flies, and shudders again when John drags his trousers down over his hips. Worse still, when John hooks his thumbs under the elastic of Sherlock's underpants to pull them down too, Sherlock makes a noise that, coming from anyone else, would definitely be a whimper. But John daren't dwell on the thought he might be capable of making Sherlock whimper, so he pushes it firmly from his mind, and concentrates on getting Sherlock's pants off. God, Sherlock's dick is hard. And hot. The rest of his body is positively cool by comparison, his flanks and thighs almost cold, but as John undoes his own trousers and kicks them off, he knows it's not the cold that's making Sherlock tremble. He's trembling himself. He tugs his jumper and shirt up over his head together, and throws them aside.

"Hurry _up_ ," Sherlock grumbles. "For god's sake, John, hurry up."

John pulls off his own boxers quickly, hopping from one foot to the other to get his legs out. Somehow, despite his excitement, he manages to not fall over.

Naked at last, he pauses to look at Sherlock. He knows he's not going to last long once he's inside him, so he wants to make the most of this, the moment before. He wants to savour the tight stretch of muscle up the back of those long, long thighs and the fine dusting of soft, dark hair on them. He wants time to appreciate the beautiful lines of Sherlock's torso, and to commit every last curve of his perfectly shaped backside to memory. But, inevitably, his eyes are drawn to Sherlock's shoulder instead, and to the angry welt across it. It makes him doubt everything. Sherlock didn't know what he was asking for before; perhaps he doesn't know now either.

"Um, listen ..." John places a gentle hand on Sherlock's hip. "Are you sure about this?"

Sherlock grinds his forehead into his desk and makes an impatient noise at the back of his throat. "What does the evidence suggest, John? I'm naked over a table. I'm not examining it for fingerprints, am I?"

John can't help but laugh. "Yeah. Okay. But, well, you _do_ know what this involves, right?"

"I'm perfectly aware of the mechanics, thank you, Doctor, yes," Sherlock says, his voice taking on that infuriatingly superior edge again. "I'm also cognisant of the need for lubrication. There should be a jar of salve on the chair to your left."

There is. John picks it up and unscrews the lid. "So," he says, aiming for a conversational tone, "you've done this before, then? You've had boyfriends?" For some reason, the idea makes him a little sad - which at least means slicking himself up isn't unbearably arousing.

"Boyfriends?" Sherlock snorts. "Hardly. I was buggered _once_. At school. Didn't like it."

The enormity of this takes John's breath away. "Oh," he says, stunned. "So, uh, what makes you think you'll like it now?"

Sherlock twists his head around so that he can look back at John over his shoulder. "I'm reliably informed it's different when ..." He stops, seemingly unable to finish the sentence, and John is glad because this way it can mean exactly what he wants it to mean. An almost painful fondness wells up in him and, as he pushes some of the salve into Sherlock body, he stretches over him, leaning down to kiss the corner of his mouth. It's clumsy and off-centre, but it's brilliant too, and John thinks he could kiss Sherlock this way forever, especially when feels Sherlock's lips curl into a smile.

But Sherlock doesn't want to kiss forever. He turns his face away. " _Now_ ," he says, undulating his body meaningfully. For a brief, teasing moment his buttocks are cool against John's hot dick, then the point of contact shifts so that his spine is against John's stomach, then his shoulders against John's chest. When - overwhelmed with desire and tenderness - John doesn't move, Sherlock repeats the movement, and John cracks. There's only so much of this he can stand without losing control completely, and he lowers his head to kiss the side of Sherlock's throat. The kiss rapidly becomes hungry, open-mouthed suction, prompting Sherlock to start writhing again, and making more of those whimper-like noises. John feels pretty much like whimpering himself. The fluid movement of Sherlock's body, the brush of skin and muscle against his own, is too much - much too bloody much - and the next time Sherlock rolls his pelvis, John grabs his hipbones with both hands and holds them pinned, because he needs the pressure, needs Sherlock's backside against his groin, and to feel the cleft between Sherlock's buttocks slowly yielding to the press of his dick. Sherlock stops moving, stops breathing, just waits - for whatever John will do next. He's so utterly compliant and unresisting that John doesn't need to hang onto him to keep him close, but he does. There's a little thrill of ownership about it, of dominance, which is far too intoxicating to give up just yet, and even when John has to use one hand to guide himself into Sherlock's body, he keeps a firm hold of him with the other.

"Breathe out," he says, and as Sherlock exhales, John pushes slowly and carefully in.

"Oh god," Sherlock gasps, his fingers scrabbling to the edges of the desk to grip them tight. "Oh god."

"D'you want me to stop?" John pants, because even now, even this desperately horny, he will, if Sherlock needs him to.

"No!" Sherlock sounds positively outraged at the idea, so John pushes in further, deeper, all the way, and Sherlock lets out a long, low moan that's rough with what might be pain but which sounds much more like arousal.

Even so, John doesn't want to rush him. Sherlock may not technically be a virgin, but he might as well be, given how limited - and unsatisfactory - his experience has been. John needs to give him time, no matter how badly he wants to just pound the hell into him. But as he waits for Sherlock to get used to it all and for the tight constriction of Sherlock's muscles around his dick to ease off a bit, Sherlock surprises him by rocking his hips - little movements back and forward at first, then harder, faster, sometimes with a roll to the right and sometimes to the left.

John closes his eyes and clenches his teeth. The drag and push on his dick is amazing. He can practically see stars, it's so good.

"I do hope," Sherlock pants, driving his backside into John's pelvis with some force now, "that I'm not going to have to do _all_ the work here."

John laughs - a crazy, giddy laugh of sheer happiness. "No," he says, starting to thrust, "I'll, uh, help you out, don't worry."

"Glad. To. Hear. It," Sherlock answers, his words quickly becoming broken and breathless as John gathers speed. "Exercise. Good for you. Don't. Want. You. Getting fat."

"Just you wait," John promises, and moves both hands back to Sherlock's hipbones for some serious purchase and leverage. When he thrusts again, Sherlock shudders and moans into the table top. That's bad enough for John's composure, but then there's the sensation on top, the blissful friction, and he's right on the edge of losing himself, of forgetting about anything other than how bloody fantastic this feels, and how much he wants to feel _more_ of it, when he remembers how badly he wants Sherlock to feel it too, and for this to be just as good for him. He stills and says, "Shuffle back a bit."

"What?" Sherlock sounds breathless, dazed. "Why?"

"Just bloody do it," John chuckles, and pulls lightly on Sherlock's hips, guiding him back.

It's not exactly an elegant manoeuvre, the two of them, inching back, with John doing his best to stay inside Sherlock, and Sherlock not really understanding what's going on, but eventually they get to a point where Sherlock's head and chest are still resting on the desk, but that's all. John hears him grunt in irritation, and smiles. Where there's no table, there's no pressure, and no friction; no wonder Sherlock's annoyed.

"How does this help?" Sherlock demands. "It was better-"

"Shut up," John says, cutting him off - not just with words, but by sliding both hands forwards too - one to cup Sherlock's balls and the other to grasp his dick.

Sherlock's first "Oh!" is a little sound of surprised realization, but the " _Oh_ " that follows - when John starts working him slowly in time to his thrusts - is much deeper and longer, a rumble of astonished, grateful pleasure.

It doesn't take long to bring him to orgasm. Just a couple of slow strokes, then half a dozen faster, firmer ones, and he arches, shivers once and comes. John has never felt prouder in his life, and he kisses every inch of Sherlock he can reach, murmuring soothing sounds into his skin. He hears Sherlock sigh - a deep, satisfied kind of sigh - and his body goes limp. It's Johns turn now, and he's about to chase down his own orgasm, when suddenly Sherlock's grip on his desk fails and they're falling. Sherlock lands with a bump on spread knees on the living room floor, and topples forwards, one arm bent under his head and the other trailing out to the side. John is down too, on his knees behind Sherlock, with his dick still miraculously inside him.

This ... This is John's favourite fantasy come true. He has Sherlock on the floor, head down, backside up in the air - and he's damn well going to enjoy it. Placing a hand on the small of Sherlock's back to steady himself, he thrusts once, hard and deep. His heart thuds, and every nerve tingles with the heat and pleasure of it. He thrusts a second time, and catches his breath. Thrusts once more, and falls wonderfully, ecstatically apart.

He's not sure how long he stays collapsed over Sherlock's crumpled body, head turned to one side and his cheek wet with sweat against Sherlock's back, but he guesses it must be several minutes because when Sherlock finally heaves him off, his knees come away from the floorboards feeling dented and a little sore.

He rolls away to the side, avoiding the toppled chair, and makes sure Sherlock has room to straighten out too. They lie together on their backs for some time, John listening to the muted traffic noise from outside, and to the sound of Sherlock breathing next to him.

"That," he says, at last, "was amazing." But there's no answer. "Sherlock?"

"Mmm?"

John turns his head to see Sherlock lying perfectly still with his eyes closed and his head tipped back. He looks more peaceful that John has ever seen him. "Was it okay?" John asks, even though he knows it _was_ \- the proof of that is still wet between his fingers - but he'd like to hear Sherlock say it.

Eyes still closed, Sherlock merely stretches lazily and nods.

John wriggles closer, until they're touching again. There are little bits of grit digging into his skin, and he really couldn't say when they last vacuumed, but he's perfectly content to keep lying here like this, grit and dirt and all, because - blimey! - after months and months of dreaming about about it, he's just had sex with Sherlock. Sex with Mr I'm-really-not-looking-for-any-kind-of-relationship-because-I'm-married-to-my-work, no less. Ignoring their domestic failings seems perfectly in order after something like that.

However, when a little frown creases Sherlock's forehead and he clears his throat, John's contentment falters a bit and he feels a rush of alarm - alarm that only intensifies when Sherlock says slowly, "Um, John ..."

"Yes?" John replies quickly, probably _too_ quickly, because now he's sounding as alarmed as he feels, and he'd really rather Sherlock didn't think him utterly desperate.

Sherlock takes a deep breath and opens his eyes. "Um - would it be possible, next time, to omit the bit with the riding crop?" He smiles uncertainly. "Unless you consider it essential?"

"No! Not at all!" John laughs, awash with relief - not only because Sherlock is already thinking about their next time but also because he doesn't want John to hit him again. Then the penny drops. An oddly-shaped penny, all the way from the weirder realms of Planet Sherlock. "What? Hang on! No, _no_. Come on, Sherlock! The sadomasochism was _your_ idea, not mine."

"Don't be absurd," Sherlock retorts. "I don't enjoy pain. You talked me into it."

John gapes at him. "Sorry, I did _what_?"

"You said brilliant men like to give up control. That they like pain. Naturally I took it as an overture."

"Naturally?" John sits up. " _Naturally_! For God's sake, Sherlock - I just wanted a shag."

Sherlock sits up too. He looks a little melancholy as he speaks. "It didn't seem like it. After the pool ... I thought ... But you didn't touch me in the taxi."

"You're the one who went and huddled in a corner," John argues. "And when we got back here, you rushed off to your room."

Sherlock casts a glance up at his desk and looks a little shame-faced. "I thought you'd think a bed more appropriate."

"Oh." John could kick himself. He can't believe what a dozy pillock he's been, nor how utterly clueless Sherlock can be either. Shaking his head sadly at their combined stupidity, he takes Sherlock's face between his hands and kisses him. "You idiot. It looks like your deductive skills could still do with a bit of work, mate."

Sherlock tosses his head. "There is absolutely nothing wrong with my deductive skills," he sniffs, then adds with a little grimace, " _ordinarily_. I told you: this isn't really my area. But you have to admit that I'm always on fire when it comes to murderous cabbies, smugglers and consulting criminals."

The reference to Moriarty sends John's thoughts leaping back seven days, to the pool - and the way Sherlock was prepared to hand over the Bruce-Partington plans and risk national security just to save him. A vivid memory of the frantic way Sherlock tore off the jacket Moriarty had made him wear comes back to him too, and then the sheer brilliance of Sherlock's smile when he thought John was safe. That smile was like a kid's, unselfconsciously _happy_ \- and suddenly John knows something Sherlock probably doesn't; something bloody amazing. He smiles. "Yes, yes - you're very clever, Sherlock. Everyone knows that. But you were completely wrong this time, weren't you? About everything."

"Not everything," Sherlock begins to argue. "You might never have initiated it yourself, and you may not have liked the results but-"

"About _everything_ ," John insists. "And I think I know why."

Sherlock raises a sceptical eyebrow. "Really? Do, please, enlighten me."

"Can't. Not yet. I need more data."

Sherlock gives a little snort. "And how do you propose to get it?"

"Like this," John says, and kisses him.

The way Sherlock kisses him back tells him everything he wants to know.

One day - when hearing it is less likely to completely freak Sherlock out - John will share his discovery. For now, he's going to keep it to himself and revel quietly in the knowledge that Sherlock has broken his cardinal rule and allowed himself to care about someone. To care about _John_ \- and to care enough that he went along with something he thought John wanted, just to please him.

It turns out, John thinks, pulling Sherlock closer still, that there's more than one way of having a man pretty much entirely at your mercy, and _this_ way is by far the best.  


The End

  


**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally written as a last-minute gift for a pinch-hitter (sco1of) from the LJ Holmestice comm. The original version was written in a very short space of time (for me) and posted under my other fic writing name.
> 
> This version has been much revised and has a slightly different tone.


End file.
